A Lady Would Know Better

Chapter Twenty-Four

Hetty

The outside air was frigid. Neither of them had thought to collect Hetty’s cloak, and Claremont was in such a hurry that she was sure he wouldn’t go back for it. Eager to get her back to her suffering aunt, she thought. The fact that he was a good son helped to warm Hetty as they made their way down the daunting line of carriages. Claremont’s own seemed to be at the very end of it. By the time Hetty had been helped into it, warm thoughts of familial love or not, she was shivering violently and her excitement had faded, replaced by a slight feeling of unease.

Information , she reminded herself. She needed information. It was the end and aim of her very existence, to know things in order to feel a sense of control. And for the first time since waking, her questions would have answers.

After what sounded like a spirited discussion with the footman, Claremont got into the carriage and handed her a folded wool blanket, which she promptly wrapped around herself until only her head was visible. The footman placed a warmer between them on the carriage floor, looking at her curiously but saying nothing. Before long, they were moving, the delicious heat of the warmer curling around Hetty’s frigid toes.

Hetty looked to Claremont, who studied her as if waiting for disaster. She supposed that was fair, given her behavior.

“Why were you at the ball tonight?” she blurted out, unable to even pretend to have a normal conversation with the cousin who likely had thought her dead.

He cleared his throat. “I was looking for you, of course. We have been hunting for you since you went missing.”

“What did the search entail?” she asked, wanting to know what she had put them through.

He looked out the window, pulling at his collar. “This isn’t exactly a proper conversation to have with a lady—”

“I recently vomited on an earl’s boots, and was subsequently stripped down to my underclothes most efficiently by his sister. I can assure you, I am not at risk of being scandalized.”

Claremont made a small choking sound. “Well, our search has been quite robust. Or at least as robust as one can be while still being discreet. By the time we knew you were gone there was little hope of following your trail. But we did our best, trying first the places we thought you might go, but there was no sign of you. Eventually we enlisted the help of a detective, who suggested we might try to find you in a mortuary.” He shuddered. “That unfortunate task was left up to me. Clearly, I did not find you there.”

Did he seem almost vexed by that? His tone was confusing. “Did you believe me dead?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “But we were desperate for answers. Not knowing if you were dead or alive was perhaps the most difficult part.”

“Did you have reason to suspect I’d run away?” She thought back to the memory she had of her hopelessness and fear, and Jasper’s claim that she had said she was being pursued. She wanted to ask Claremont outright if he knew anything about that, but her gut told her to wait. To collect as much information as she could before revealing anything.

He stared at her in the flickering lantern light. Half his face was cast in shadow, but she could see that he was straining under something. Guilt? That didn’t seem right. Did he fear her reaction? She burned to know exactly what he was thinking.

After a while, he spoke. “No, Hetty. You were mourning your father; you had no reason to leave his home.”

She sat with that for a moment. Much like that visceral fear, Hetty’s grief had followed her through her injury. She hadn’t known who it was for at first, but the loss of her father had come back to her before her own name. It had affected her deeply. She could almost recreate his visage in her mind now, a haphazard portrait of a man she knew as well as she knew herself. He was handsome, with kind eyes and a substantial moustache. Hardly ever without his pipe, she recalled the comforting scent of him, too. Tobacco and turpentine.

But she could not make out all of him. Parts were still missing. She hoped to rebuild him fully in the home they had lived in together.

Claremont was eyeing her almost warily. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, after what she had put them through. “How is it you recognized me? I would have thought the mask would be limiting.”

He tilted his head. “It was your laugh, in fact. I’m not sure if you noticed, but it is a tad distinct. Bell-like. I followed it through the ballroom, seeking you out long before I realized what I was doing. It seemed you had much occasion to laugh this evening.” He did not say it kindly.

Hetty tried to ignore the sting of his tone. “How old am I?”

He thought briefly. “Twenty-two.”

That number surprised her. “Why am I not married?”

“Your father took a rather dim view of matrimony for the sake of securing a position.” He paused and sat back, looking like he wished he hadn’t said anything. Perhaps he feared he was painting a negative image of her father, but she was hungry for a broader understanding of herself and her family, and that meant knowing everything she could. “My understanding is that he offered you much latitude in that regard.”

“So I did not wish to find a husband?”

He quirked a brow. “I’m not sure you had many suitors,” was all he offered. “My mother and I live most of the time in London. We did not spend more than a few weeks together every couple of years.”

“And this ring?” she asked, pulling it from within her bodice. “Who is JHD ?”

He looked at her like she was a simpleton. “Your father. John Henry Davenport.”

Her surname did not surprise her. It was another tether. Henrietta Davenport. “So, not my fiancé, then,” she concluded with relief, mostly to herself.

“No, there is no handsome, titled gentleman waiting for you at Sutton House, of that I can assure you.” Why did his tone verge almost toward cruelty?

She put it aside. “What was it my father did as a profession?”

“He was an American artist. A rather accomplished one at that, in some circles.”

Her heart hammered against her chest. “An artist?” she echoed in awe, recalling how her love of art had seemed to reach through her veiled memories.

“It was why you spent your life flitting about from one place to the next, following his patronages and taking commissions all over Europe. You had only been in Sutton House for the last year. I’m sure he had plans to up and leave once more, before he died.” He frowned at himself for his callousness. “I’m sorry, Hetty—”

“Did I not wish to go with him?”

“I believe it was a source of tension between you two. He liked to say he had ‘itchy feet but a headstrong daughter.’ He had only ever settled here because of your mother. John Davenport had no great love for England. I believe it was his sincerest wish that you would feel more at home on the deck of a ship than in the English countryside. But you had grown weary of his nomadic pursuits. This time in Surrey was something of an experiment for you both.”

“I wonder why he did not see my living with the two of you as a compromise. Surely residing with family would have been a more desirable option than his continued unhappiness.”

“Surely,” Claremont agreed. “But the two of you did so loathe being parted. Maybe nothing would have prevented you from following him.”

Hetty looked out the carriage window, suddenly overcome with a sense of rootlessness. She had felt so certain that regaining her memories would mean discovering her place in the world, but what if she had never had one to begin with? It sounded like the longing she felt to understand who she was and where she belonged was not a new sensation borne out of losing her past, but rather one that had followed her from her old life, like her grief.

Because the ache she felt when she thought of her father was grief, she knew that. But missing someone with every fiber of her being did not mean they’d never quarreled. It did not mean all was roses between them, or that theirs hadn’t been a complicated relationship.

Hetty wondered why she didn’t remember that, as well.

She stored away her feelings of insecurity, favoring any facts her cousin might give her. “And my mother—”

“Hetty, please,” he interrupted with a sigh. “This is beginning to feel like an interrogation. Aren’t you simply relieved to have been found again? We have all the time in the world to answer your queries.” Hetty bit her tongue, knowing she had about three hundred more questions at the ready. She didn’t wish to pester him, not after everything he had been through. “Isn’t that better?” he asked, remarking upon the awkward silence that had blossomed between them. “Blessed quiet. I suspect you have much to think about before we get back to Sutton House.” She nodded, afraid to speak lest a new question slip out. “If you don’t mind, I shall rest my eyes until we get there. It has been a very trying time.”

Before Hetty could reply, or even ask how long the journey would be, Claremont had turned away from her and closed his eyes. Only an ill-mannered person would have ignored his request for silence, but Hetty did find it odd that her cousin didn’t have more patience for her, given the circumstances.

A peculiar feeling spread through her. She might have called it a chill, only this felt…emptier. It was like the feeling that had overcome her in the portrait gallery, when she had discovered how secure Jasper was, and how conversely insecure she felt.

She shivered beneath the blanket, but vowed not to give in to the tug of despair. Perhaps her aunt would be warmer. Perhaps everything would fall into place the moment she set foot in the home she had shared, however briefly, with her father. She untied the ribbons of her mask and placed it on the bench beside her. She wanted to meet her aunt again as herself. As Hetty.

It wasn’t long before the carriage slowed. She hadn’t thought the journey would be long, considering she likely hadn’t gotten very far on horseback the night she’d fled into the storm.

It was too dark outside for her to make out much more than Sutton House’s general shape. It looked to be a stately manor, much smaller than Mulgrave Hall, but still far too large for a widower and his only child. Why hadn’t her father remarried? Was it his “itchy feet” that prevented him from laying down roots? Had Hetty been a burden to him? She couldn’t wait to meet her aunt and ask her. She might not be a blood relative, but she had known Hetty’s father for decades. If anyone had the answers she sought, it was her.

The carriage came to a stop and Claremont awoke with a start, looking right at her. “Oh, you’re still here.”

“Where would I have gone?” she asked with a light laugh.

“You cannot blame me for my concern,” he replied. “Given your previous misadventure.”

“It’s not as if I ran from you , Cousin,” she teased back.

Claremont’s face went terribly blank, devoid of all emotion. “No, quite right,” he responded before departing.

Perhaps it was too soon for jesting.

There was no steady hand waiting for her, so she did her best to shimmy out of the carriage, constricted as she was by Isobel’s gown and the blanket both. Claremont was talking with the footman again, so Hetty took a deep breath of frigid air and studied her home.

It was a red-bricked Georgian country house, completely symmetrical and balanced in its design, with four large white columns bracketing a shiny black door with a polished brass handle. Even though she had only spent some months there, Hetty knew it would squeak when turned, and that the path to the left of the house led to a babbling brook where she liked to read in the dappled sunlight of the woods.

Her mind prickled as she remembered the small pieces of her old life, the seemingly inconsequential details that meant more to her than she could rightly articulate.

However short her stay at Sutton House had been, Hetty had had a life here. And despite Jasper’s misgivings, her cousin had not led her astray.

The footman crossed her path, giving her an odd look. She almost called out to him, to find out if they had known each other before. Perhaps the strange looks were a result of her not acting the way she should have with him. Were they friendly? Did she know him very well? But before she could ask, someone cleared their throat behind her. She turned to see her cousin gesturing toward the house.

“Welcome home,” he said. When she began to walk toward it, he stopped her gently. “How about I go break the happy news to Mother before we shock her into an early grave.”

Hetty deflated. “You don’t think she’d wish to see me straight away?”

“Do not misunderstand, Hetty. My mother’s poor nerves may not survive seeing you in the flesh without adequate time to prepare.” He began escorting her up the steps. “All I’m asking is that you wait until I come for you. I wouldn’t want you to see her in such a state.”

“Nor would I wish to upset her,” she replied, finding there was a well of sympathy for her aunt within her.

They entered the home, the scent of which hit Hetty like a ton of bricks. Even with her father dead, the air still smelled of pipe smoke and the faintest hint of his cologne. She staggered, bringing her hand to the wall for some support.

“Are you all right?” asked Claremont.

“Fine, just…” she said, struggling to explain the weight of memory that was crushing her. “It’s a lot to take in,” she offered weakly.

“Here, come to the drawing room,” he replied, guiding her to a small room off the main corridor. “Sit, sit,” he implored, pushing her onto a settee. “I’ll send for some tea while I break the news to Mother. Then I will come collect you when we are ready.”

Hetty merely nodded as Claremont left the room in a rush. Her head ached; her body was weak. She felt like she had been thrown from her horse once more. It was almost too much to bear, being in the home she could not fully remember, without the father who had made it a home to begin with. She found herself sliding down the settee until she was horizontal, pressing her hand to her eyes in an effort to relieve some of the pressure.

How had she gotten there? It had all happened so quickly. In one moment, Hetty had been resolved to leave Jasper and the Maycotts forever, banishing herself to some unknown future as a recluse, perhaps, and the next, she was in the home she had left behind, rebuilding the broken pieces of her life with naught but her own two hands. She had hoped it would all make sense as soon as she entered Sutton House, but something was wrong. Her heartbeat had not slowed since she’d walked through the door with Claremont. Nerves, perhaps, or the lingering effects of bad memories long forgotten. But what would make her feel so uneasy in what was apparently her own home? A year might be a relatively short amount of time, but it was long enough to know when something wasn’t right. She tried to remember anything else, but the effort strained her greatly.

Where was the blasted tea her cousin had promised? She sat up shakily and looked around, wondering where the nearest servant might be. She didn’t expect there were many at Sutton House, but a footman, a cook, at least two maids, a housekeeper, and a butler seemed standard for a house its size. Desperate, she rang the bell that would bring a servant to her, hoping they hadn’t retired for the evening and that she was not disturbing them.

But no one came. Eventually, Hetty realized she could hear laughter from deeper in the house. Laughter and jolly voices belonging to what sounded like several different people. It was odd. Was her aunt entertaining? That didn’t exactly match the portrait Claremont had painted of a woman in the throes of mourning.

Curiosity got the better of her, as it always had. She had a right to know what was happening in her own home. Claremont had no doubt prepared her aunt by now. Had he forgotten his promise to her?

She walked the corridors, oddly both familiar and foreign, her feet seeming to know the way better than her mind did. Was that the tantalizing scent of a roast in the air? Was her aunt hosting a dinner party? Hetty’s stomach growled at the thought. At least she might get a plate out of it.

Just before she rounded a corner she knew on instinct would lead to the dining room, Hetty heard hushed voices.

“And you’re certain she recalls nothing of that night?” asked a feminine voice that must have belonged to her aunt.

“Nothing at all, Mother. It is most curious for her to have forgotten everything .”

“Curious indeed—” The blasted floor beneath Hetty’s feet creaked, silencing her aunt.

Claremont peeked around the corner. “Hetty! I thought I told you to wait for me to collect you.”

“I heard voices,” she said, trying not to sound weak and failing. “And I’m desperate for tea but no one came when I called.”

“Darling,” said her aunt, stepping around Claremont, flashing a radiant smile. “We had to do away with many comforts such as those, what with your inheritance tied up with solicitors.”

It was a strange thing to say, but Hetty was too focused on her aunt’s sudden appearance to make much note of it. She was tall like her son, with hair so pale it seemed stark white in the shadowed hall, but upon closer inspection Hetty could see that it was blond. Overall, she was angular and beautiful in a sharp, rather unforgiving manner.

“Lady Claremont,” said Hetty, offering a small curtsy, unsure of how to greet her otherwise.

“ Psh , we don’t stand at attention here, now do we?” the woman said, arms extended, beckoning for Hetty to embrace her. “You know to simply call me Aunt Celia.”

The hug was stiff. Unnatural. It wasn’t the immediate warmth that Hetty had hoped for.

“But Mother, Hetty doesn’t remember a thing.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she replied. “Apologies, darling. What a wretched ailment! And to have kept you from us all this time!” She gripped Hetty’s forearm and began to rather firmly guide her away from the dining room, away from Claremont, who merely offered her a sheepish look before turning on his heel and joining the dinner Hetty was being pulled away from.

She opened her mouth to protest, but her aunt was quicker.

“I’m sure you have many questions for us, but they will simply have to wait until after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

Her stomach growled. “I am rather hungry. Could I perhaps join your dinner?”

“That would be impossible, given your current state—”

“I am not unwell, Aunt Celia,” she said, choosing rudeness as a last resort to get her point across. They stopped walking, her aunt relinquishing her grip on her arm. “Merely hungry,” Hetty added, softer.

Her aunt pressed her lips together. Took a deep breath. Plastered a rather unconvincing smile on her face. “Now Hetty, I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a rather awkward time. My guests do not know that you were missing. How am I to explain your sudden return from Bath?”

“You told everyone I was in Bath?” She could have been dead for all they knew, and they were entertaining as though the lie they had concocted was the truth.

“My dear, we did not wish to compromise your reputation in the event that you returned to us. We have been doing our best to carry on as normally as we could, given the circumstances. I think you’ll find our methods sensible when you’re still able to secure a marriage proposal. Now come.” She held out her hand for Hetty to take. “I will guide you to your room. A good rest is all you need. I will have a plate sent to you right away.”

Hetty found she lacked the energy to argue further, and allowed her aunt to bring her through the familiar but unfamiliar house, all the way up to the third floor and into a room that seemed to embrace her the moment she entered it. There was a fire in the hearth, so someone had alerted a maid as to her sudden reappearance. Books covered nearly every surface, along with countless abandoned teacups.

“Thank you, Aunt Celia.”

Her aunt looked mildly puzzled. “For what?”

“For helping me remember.” Her family might leave much to be desired in terms of warmth, but they were here in this home with her, supporting her after the loss of her father. That had to mean something.

“Think nothing of it!” she replied, pressing her hands to her heart. “That’s what family is for, after all. Now I must get back to my guests, but please rest, darling. I will have food sent up to you.”

As her aunt turned to leave, one final question rose to the forefront of Hetty’s mind.

“Do I have any other family? A grandparent perhaps? Other aunts or uncles?”

Aunt Celia turned back, frowning. “No, Hetty,” she said, her voice soft. “I daresay we’re all you have left in the world.”

She left, and the room was colder. Hetty hadn’t realized how little she wished to be alone after her accident. With the Maycotts, she’d hardly gotten a moment’s peace, but she had grown accustomed to their affectionate mayhem.

Her welcome back to Sutton House was not unkind, but it was not the reception Hetty had been envisioning since Claremont had found her at the ball. Still, she could endure for a night. Her arrival had been a shock. She could not judge their reactions too harshly. They were her family, after all.

A knock at her door startled her.

“Come in,” she called, desperate for company. But no one entered. Eventually, Hetty rose and opened the door herself. She was surprised to see a tray of food laid on the floor before her, its deliverer nowhere to be found. Were she not starving, she might have started snooping around the hallways, seeking a maid who may have known her from before.

But Hetty was both hungry and exhausted. Her exploring would have to wait.

She brought the tray into her room and deposited it onto her bed. Removing the cloche revealed a plate of small roast potatoes and thin carrots and a rather pitiful slice of meat. Hetty had to stop herself from devouring it with her bare hands. And while the serving size was a bit stingy, a rather generous glass of red wine accompanied the dish, which she was happy to indulge in.

When she was done, the emptiness crept back in. She put the tray on her messy desk, noticing an overturned frame amidst the chaos. Picking it up, she realized at once it was a photograph of her father. She lifted it closer for inspection, noting her memories of his moustache had been correct. The ring she wore around her neck was on his pinky finger. He looked every inch the restless artist, with paint-stained hands that blurred as though he were unable to keep still long enough for film to capture him.

The photograph was a knife, cutting clean through her. There was the bone-deep pain, the one she hadn’t been able to recall, the one she felt as keenly as any wound.

Papa , she thought, remembering that someone had schooled her to call him that as a jest, playing into his long-held prejudice against the French art world, but it had evolved into something precious between them. Theirs might have been a complicated relationship, but she knew he’d loved her more than anything, and she him. They had been alone together for so long, two broken people, each missing her mother, each repairing the other.

Her tears came easily in the privacy of her room. When she cried, it wasn’t just for losing him. Hetty cried for having forgotten him, too.

She stripped out of her clothes and crawled into her bed, her sobs shaking her whole body. Sleep came upon her like a sudden shift in the tide, pulling her under.

Her last thought before succumbing to the ebb of exhaustion was of Jasper.

Why hadn’t she brought him with her? Why on earth had she come there alone?